Quiet Houses

We got a TON of work done at the house his weekend. She's almost empty, and my sister is calling realtors this week while my brother scrambles to get some legal paperwork in order. And I play cheerleader and handle the bill-paying and volunteer management. We're getting close.

And even though my heart feels like it's going through a coffee grinder every time I talk about selling that house, I'm slowly but surely stepping back from it with a bit more calm, and a bit more grace.

There were people there on Saturday that have loved our family a long time. Like 40 years long. People who helped build the house were there to help empty it. Kids that I used to babysit were there, having left their own kiddos with babysitters, hauling boxes of junk to the dumpster. My high school youth group leaders were there to help lug furniture and keep the day light with jokes and funny memories. My two best high school friends came by to laugh and help and hug. We looked at old photos and cringed at the silly crap that kept pouring out of closets and cabinets and basement. We told a lot of "remember that time when..." stories.

Seeing a dumpster full to the brim and another dumpster's worth of stuff that didn't make it out of the house yet was a very powerful and quiet reminder to travel lightly in this world. My parents were not pack rats. Sure, they kept boxes upon boxes of documents in case they were ever needed, and my mom kept pretty much every book she'd ever read (as crates of warped paperbacks will attest), but most of the dumpster fodder was composed of childhood toys long broken, mouse-infested holiday decor, and housewares not fit for further use. It wasn't a Hoarders situation. But still, the contents of over 30 years of a family life together were spilled onto the lawn. Humbling. The sum of our material life.

A life-long family friend remarked that the whole drive over to the house she braced herself to feel sad all day for missing my parents, and heavy hearted for us. But then, she said cheerfully, she got to work and realized that it was just a house now. It was a home, but now it's just a building.

A container.

It's true that it doesn't really feel like home to me anymore. Especially now that the rooms are empty and the pictures and needle points have been taken down from the walls. I can't smell hot cider warming in the kitchen and I don't hear the jangle of the dog's collar tags when I get out of the car. Dad doesn't watch TV from his chair anymore, or fuss with the grill, or mow the lawn on Saturdays. And mom will never walk down the flagstone path from the house to the driveway to meet me when I come home for a visit, or hug me into her neck, or remind me that there is a bowl of jellybeans on the sofa table. No one is singing in that house anymore.

But it is probably also true that selling the house will give us some closure, and relieve us of a considerable financial and emotional stressor. I have some awesome pictures of the house and property from the wedding, and 33 years worth of memories. Memories that I may start to put to writing.

So, I guess we'll see if selling the house relieves a heaviness or shoots me directly back to therapy. It's kind of a crap shoot, really, at this point. I could see it going either way. But I will never forget what it feels like to drive down that gravel driveway on a summer day, limestone chunks rumbling under my tires as the brown wood of the house comes into view under the arch of green tree branches. This is the most beautiful place in the world. And I got to call it home for 33 years.